


Make Love to Me (like You Know I am Better than the Worst Thing I ever did)

by girl0nfire, saturnmeetsmercury (jarofhearts)



Series: I will write sonnets to the salt of sweat on your skin [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Comfort Sex, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, F/M, Implied Canon Temporary Character Death, Implied Consent, Possessive Sex, Power Exchange, Rough Sex, Spies speaking in code, Unconditional Love, emotional exhaustion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-24
Updated: 2016-02-24
Packaged: 2018-05-22 23:14:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6097135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girl0nfire/pseuds/girl0nfire, https://archiveofourown.org/users/jarofhearts/pseuds/saturnmeetsmercury
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thursday: Dominance / Submission</p><p>"I'm really tired."<br/>"I know."<br/>She says it immediately, wraps her arms around him and presses a kiss to his hair. It's what he always says when this happens, when he needs more to unwind than just a quiet day in.<br/>"It's alright. I'm going to take care of you."</p><p>(sometimes they have to remind each other that, no matter what, they belong and are loved, and to empty their minds of everything but that)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_January 2018_

 

Bucky's been very resolutely not allowing himself to pace their living room.

Natasha's quinjet touched down forty minutes ago, according to the update she's sent, and he's under the impression she's physically alright, considering she would've asked him to come meet her if she was injured. She doesn't like being alone in hospitals.

He definitely understands.

Still, something feels - off, about her messages. They're shorter than usual and spaced much further apart than he's come to expect, not to mention he's still not entirely sure where she even _was_ and that she's been gone two days longer than she told him she would be.

Forcing himself to breathe out, Bucky drops himself on the couch, his hands twisting in his lap. The clock on the wall says it's nearly one AM, but he's nowhere close to being tired yet.

_Where is she?_

He’s been staring out the windows from where he’s sitting for maybe ten minutes when the key in the lock finally sounds through the silence, and the door clicks open.

"Tasha?"

Bucky starts up from the couch immediately, stepping around and into the entryway, and she's -

She looks like _hell_ , a few butterfly bandages on a cut on her forehead the only visible damage, but -

<"Darling?">

“Don’t,” is her reply, flat and sharp-edged. She looks at him for a very brief moment but _doesn’t_ quite look at him, bending down to push off her boots with her hair falling into her face.

Alright, he thinks.

There's definitely something off.

Bucky leans his shoulder against the wall, crossing his arms loosely, and he keeps his voice soft and even.

It's been a very long while, since he's seen her like this.

He didn't realize how thankful he should've been for that.

"There's takeout in the fridge," he offers with a small smile. "I wasn't sure if you'd be hungry or not, so I ordered extra."

“I’m not going to eat.”

She goes to push past him, gaze still sliding away from his.

There’s a volcano brewing under that cool exterior, he knows that, can see it. And it’s not directed at him, Bucky knows that if he gave her space right now, left her to it, she wouldn’t come to bed all night, maybe not even the one after, but in two, three days, she’d (probably, very likely) have worked through it, whatever it is that happened.

He's not sure he's willing to wait that long. Especially not when it seems to be worse this time, somehow, darker and sharper than just the usual post-sideways mission funks they both fall prey to sometimes.

"Natalia." He lets his voice take on just a touch of firmness, enough for her to realize he's noticing this, even if he doesn't know what _it_ is yet.

His left arm slips from where it's crossed over his chest, swinging out to catch her around the waist, gently, before she can get fully past him.

"Stop."

It’s an immediate reaction, maybe even an instinctive one, that she tenses, twists out of his hold and pushes him away. It’s not much, making him need to steady himself with one inevitable and one deliberate step backwards.

She’s staring at him now, coiled like a bow too tightly strung.

Christ.

They've been through this - five, maybe six times that he can recall, times where she's come back after an op that's gone _so wrong_ that it's almost like she doesn't come back at all, so far away from him that she might as well still be on the other side of the world.

The two of them, they've seen way more than their fair shares of death and destruction, but that hasn't made either of them hard. For her to come to him like this - this tightly wound, this dark, shadows flitting over her face like spider cracks in shattering glass - something has gone very, very wrong.

But they don't need to talk about that.

Another debrief isn't what she needs.

<"Natalia.">

He says her name again, sharply this time, his tone serious.

If it's as bad as he suspects, as bad as she's letting on, there's only one question he really needs to ask.

And really, only one she'll answer.

"How was it?"

For a few moments nothing really happens. She still stares at him, her shoulders tense, body frozen in place. But eventually Bucky can see her jaw working subtly, and there’s something flickering over her eyes just as she turns away.

<”Like goddamn Mologa drowning all over again.”>

God, this is one of those times he hates being right.

There's maybe something to be said for the fact that, for a pair of spies, they very rarely speak in codes, choosing instead, over and over, to be plain with one another in ways that very few people have ever been with either of them. They do not have time for games of guessing the other's thoughts - especially not for him, when sometimes, he can't even parse his own.

But they hold a few things very sacred, words and phrases they do not use unless things are very dire, necessities that help them both feel secure inside the very small circle they've built around themselves.

This is one of those codes. A city, lost decades ago to a flood, that's come to mean, for her, that she too, feels like she's drowning.

And that she needs him to do what she can't.

His left hand snaps out again, purposeful this time, his hand gripping tightly to her shoulder as she turns away.

<"I did not tell you to turn away from me.">

“ _Fuck you_ , Barnes,” she spits back, twists and pushes him away again, but this time he’s ready for it. He holds his stance and his hand shoots out again, but she evades him and just a heartbeat later, they’re both trading and blocking a couple of inevitable blows.

He doesn't aim to hurt her, never sends a blow her way that's anything more than glancing, but she's the opposite, her fist landing in the center of his chest, knocking the breath from him, her other hand scrabbling at his wrist, nails digging into his skin.

She's deadly, he knows this; he also knows she usually holds back when they train, as he does, hesitant to release the full power of her body. But not now.

Never, when it's like this.

He blocks the worst of her blows, careful to avoid hurting her in any real way, and lets her storm at him with more force than the full range of her skill, teeth bared, hands fisting in the front of his shirt.

Gripping her wrists tightly, he jerks her hands away suddenly, gathering them over her head and shoving her back against the wall of the hallway so hard the framed photos shiver in their places. The fingers of his left hand span over her wrists, the metal giving a faint whine as he readjusts his hold, his right hand coming to cup her jaw, forcing her to face him.

<"Look at me.">

She doesn’t, her gaze just going past him. But after a moment of stillness, she struggles, briefly but forcefully, to see how tight his hold is.

<“ _Look at me_.” >

His left hand tightens around her wrists, and he presses his body against hers, using his weight to hold her still.

<“Widow.”>

It’s dispassionate. They never refer to one another by code names, haven’t since they knew the other had a name that held more meaning than ‘weapon’, but he’s used it here before, times where she’s still half in the field, and it’s worked.

It takes a beat, but eventually, finally, she raises her gaze to his eyes. It’s burning with a cold fire, and for a few long moments they stay locked in it. Until there’s a kick to the back of his knee, and suddenly there’s a leg between them, kneeing him low in the gut, feet attempting to push him away again.

Keeping his hold on her wrists, he lets his right hand drop, tugging at her hip and using his weight to turn her around, taking advantage of her displaced weight after the kicks. He plasters himself against her back, crushing her against the wall, and forces a knee between hers, his hips pinning her down.

<“Are you going to keep fighting me? Or are you going to let me give you what you need?”> He growls the words against her ear, his voice still that same, firm tone. <“Stop.”>

The only thing that sounds in the stillness of the room for a couple of long moments is her quiet but sharp breath. He can see her swallow, can see her throat working, but she stays still. This time for real. And eventually something in her yields, evident in the tightness in her body receding just a little.

<“Keep your hands on the wall.”> He stays pressed against her, his left hand peeling away from her wrists slowly. <“Fight me again, and I will stop.”>

There’s still hesitation in her, still so much tension that he can sense it’s on the brink for a moment, about whether she’s going to listen to him or not. She’s staring at the wall - no, at nothing, half retreated into herself, and for a very brief moment there’s something pained in her expression.

She stays still.

He doesn’t speak, turning over in his mind what he should do next. But he releases her hands, watches as she spreads them on the wall deliberately, and his eyes drop to her face, watching her for a sign, for the twitch of her lips. _Anything_.

But she stays still, breathing shallowly, and he knows that he won’t get another word from her now, maybe won’t until they’re finished.  

<“If you ask me to stop, I will,”> he says lowly, his hands sliding down her sides purposefully, fingers digging into her hips. When they do this, he still has to be sure. <“Understand?”> He kicks her feet apart, pressing his face close to hers, and pushes the palm of his hand against her back, forcing her to arch for him. <“Answer me.”>

He gets a curse in return, a very colorful, Russian curse. And she pushes back against him, one more time testing him, his resolve, his willingness. He knows this is nothing else.

His right hand finds her hair, tugging her head back, and he sinks his teeth into her pulse, left hand tugging at the button of her jeans.

This - it’s nothing like they usually have, there’s no art or emotion in it, but there’s _trust_ , trust that he won’t hurt her, trust that he’ll make her forget, trust that he’ll do something about the tension drawing her shoulders almost to her jaw, trust that he’ll pull her out of the rising, black water inside her mind.

Bucky doesn’t take much care in unzipping her jeans, yanking them roughly off her hips, leaving a trail of teeth marks over her neck. He knows she’ll look for the marks, afterward, that she needs to feel like _his_ , like she belongs somewhere, and that sometimes, this is the only way she will.

Twisting the elastic of her panties between the fingers of his left hand, he snaps it, tearing them away and shifting back just enough to tug at his sweats.

Natasha doesn't speak, doesn't even really make a sound except for small, sharp breaths. For a short moment a small shiver runs through her, but the hand tugging on her hair made her shut up again, and a glance at her tells him her lips are parted, mouth having fallen open, and her eyes have fallen shut.

There would be a lot of openings for her now if she were still after it, and that’s what makes him rethink their position.

The last time it was as bad as this - an orphanage in Chechnya, she’d been sent for its corrupt director, whose colleagues had given him just enough warning that he’d torched the building with every child inside so he could make his escape - they fucked here, against the wall, two weeks after they’d moved in and the walls were still bare, and she had bruises on her knees, her elbows, her hips from knocking against it.  

He can’t do that to her. He can’t. There are some things - even though she said it helped.

He can’t.

Instead, he wraps his left arm around her waist, tugging her away from the wall, and steps back, three steps before they leave the hardwood of the hallway and land on the soft, deep pile of the living room’s carpet. He drops her, artlessly, onto her hands and knees before him, bending only to tug her jeans off completely before he kneels behind her, his right hand wrapping the mass of her hair twice around his fist, pulling her head back.

And he should feel betrayed, by his body, how all of this still stirs something hot in his gut, his cock stirring as he surveys the deep arch in her back, but -

This isn’t for him. It doesn’t matter.

She's not encouraging him, not pushing back into him or inching her legs apart in invitation, but she's not fighting him anymore either. There's something trapped in the way she holds herself now, something paralyzed, but he knows it's not because he's grabbed her hair and weighs her down with his own body. It comes only from her mind, the way her thighs quiver, how her fingers bury deeply into the soft carpet, how her breaths come in soft, uneven hitches.

He should prepare her, make certain he isn't going to hurt her, but he's so loath to touch her intimately with his left hand, even now.

Instead, he slides metal fingers over the curve of her ass, right hand tugging at her hair again, and grinds his hips against hers, listening for a sound.

There’s another small hitch both in her breath and in her body, and he’s taking too long, knows it in the fraction of a second when her muscles go tense, and then she struggles again, almost throws him off. It’s angry this time, helplessly, wordlessly angry, at whatever it is that happened, and at him, _go through with it or leave me the hell alone_.

He releases her hair, and her head drops forward immediately. Instead, he grips her hip with his left hand, bruising, and twists two fingers inside her roughly, just to be sure he won't hurt her. The evidence of her arousal almost makes this seem normal, even though he's so, so glad it isn't.

They hardly ever fuck from behind, he thinks as he pushes a third finger inside her, his thumb pressing against the tight ring of muscle just above, because usually he wants to see her face, wants to watch her, but not now.

He twists his fingers, satisfied that she's slick enough, stroking deep inside her for a moment anyway because he'd like to think the pleasure is still something she wants.

Despite all that there are large parts of this that are more fight than anything else. A short, sharply cut off sound comes from her, she tightens forcefully around his fingers and then pushes back impatiently, again a move that could either want to get him off or get him closer.

Without speaking, he slips his fingers free from her body, tugging his sweats down in the same motion. He spits into his palm before he wraps it around his length, stroking himself once, twice, before he has to bite back a sound.

His left hand moves again, traveling up her back to rest heavy on the back of her neck, pressing down, holding her in place, and she arches her back again, deep, her hips open and level with his.

He wastes no time guiding himself inside her, thrusting in deep on the first slide, so hard their hips slap together, and she finally lets out a rough, sharp cry. The rhythm he chooses has her body jostling beneath him, sharp jerks of her hips each time he meets them.

Bucky closes his eyes and tries to listen to her, to her body, waiting for the moment she finally relaxes, the second of helplessness she's waiting for.

At least she’s not silent anymore. He can hear every thrust in her breath, in the raw sounds they pull from her throat, but it still takes - He’s not entirely sure. A minute? Two? Five? He can feel her trembling, the muscles in her neck tight where he’s holding her.

When she finally lets go, her body yields beneath his. She gives in to the pressure on her neck and her arms stop holding her up, letting her upper body sink to the ground. A wounded noise is pressed against the carpet, and then a cry, as if he’s finally moving right, as if this is finally okay.

Thank god.

With her body pliant beneath his, he can speed his pace even more, bucking into her fast and rough, each thrust driving another sound from her.

He drapes himself over her back, heavy and pressed close, and lets the fingers of his left hand wrap loosely around her throat, resting over her pulse, not enough to restrict her breathing in any real way, but enough to give him more leverage as he crashes their hips together.  

His teeth find the hollow of her jaw.

<"You're mine. Nothing changes that.">

The words earn him a whimper, soft and unsteady, between the rough groans he pulls from her. Her fingers are digging into the carpet fibers, her pulse is racing under his hand, red hair spilling loosely over the ground. A strand is curling right over her face, sticking to skin that’s become damp with sweat, and then she turns her head just enough so that her forehead is pressed to the ground, shivers shaking her body.

He angles his hips on the next thrust, rewarded with a fresh cry tearing from her throat when he hits the sensitive place inside her, slamming against it again and again, his pace brutal now. His fingers tighten over her throat, lightly, just enough, and he buries his face in the crook of her neck, kissing over the angry red marks his teeth have left.

<"Let go.">

She listens to him.

Bucky’s not sure when exactly it starts because it’s not like it hits her suddenly. She’s still shivering, trembling, and it only gets stronger, gripping him tight, though he’s pretty sure she’s right in the middle of her release, not at the beginning. The cries and groans have given way to sobs, but she sounds and feels like this is the best thing she has right now, everything she asked for.

He shushes her, his hand leaving her throat to brush back her hair, gently, his thrusts slowing into long, languid movements, drawing out every shiver and twitch of her body.

<”Good -”>

He loops his right arm around her waist loosely, her body still trembling.

<”Good girl -”>

Her breathing quiets down eventually, uneven only when she swallows. The tension from her body is gone, the muscles pliant as if to move at all right now would be too much.

“Can you, too?” she asks quietly, the first words in a long while, and her voice sounds rough and exhausted and small, making his chest feel tight.  

And he can - he could -

"Look at me?"

She complies instantly, turning her head, shaking her hair out of her eyes to look up at him from over her shoulder. Her lashes are wet but her eyes are clear, locking on his without hesitation despite the baring vulnerability in them.

It almost breaks his heart, seeing her like this, but the knowledge that the worst of it has passed, that he _helped_ somehow, makes it easier.

Leaning closer, he kisses her temple softly, his right hand stroking over her stomach.

"I'd like to move first?"

Her eyes linger on his for a long moment, but eventually he gets his reply, soft and short, still no words wasted.

“Okay.”

He kisses her cheek gently, lingering for a moment before he shifts his hips back and slips out of her. Nudging her side, he helps her turn over, carefully, arranging her on her back on the carpet.

She looks exhausted.

But not the kind of tired that sleep can fix, at least not yet.

He holds her eyes, and they're both quiet, but her arms loop tightly around his neck once he slides inside her again, moving without any of the harshness of before. She holds him like she always does, her face nestled into the crook of his neck now, her thighs cradling his hips. Only that she’s not moving against him, with him this time, too tired, but he understands that, it’s okay.

This is still for her more than for him.

And the way she holds on to him tells him everything he needs to know.

"I love you," he presses it against her hair, quietly. "I'm sorry."

He rocks into her slowly, holding her as closely as he can, his left hand cradling her head against his neck. Supporting her.

Telling her what she needs to hear, even if she can't ask for it.

"I know."

His voice never raised above a whisper, his lips brushing her temple.

"You're alright."

After a few more moments she abandons the safety of the crook of his neck, tilts her head back, throat bared. She’s crying soundlessly through closed eyes, but they’re just tears, not gripping her body, and he knows that’s okay too because they need out, washing out whatever poison she came here with.

He kisses her on each cheek, softly, careful to avoid the cut on her forehead when he touches it with his, and he loses track of how long they stay like this, barely moving except for the quiet motions of his hips. His eyes fall closed, giving her some privacy, but he keeps her cradled close against his chest, her arms and legs eventually tightening around him again, holding him to her.

<"My sun,"> he whispers into the breathspace between them. <"My most precious one.">

Little endearments, silly names they rarely use, except he knows how good it can be, at times like this, to hear that the other finds light in you when you can't quite find it in yourself.

<"I love you.">

Her fingers tighten on him in reply so she’s heard him immediately, clearly, no matter how far gone she seems right now, floating on what he’s given her.

<”Please… please…”>

It’s no more than a whisper, barely audible between them.

He comes wordlessly, burying his face against her neck, the sensation dulled around the edges by the worry he still feels for her, but he can't say no to her, doesn't want to when she's like this.

He lets out a small, broken sound against her skin, pulled forcefully from his chest, and buries himself inside her, still not quite close enough.

For a long time, he stays still, his body covering hers completely, finally sharing in her exhaustion, perhaps because he's managed to take some of the weight of it from her. At least he hopes.

Natasha doesn’t move under him for a long time either except for slow, barely audible breaths. Bucky wouldn’t be surprised if she’s drifted off for a few moments, but at least this is calm now, all the anger, worry, guilt gone for the time being.

Eventually, he eases out of her, moving slowly to peel off the last of her clothes, and she accommodates him silently, arching so he can lift off her shirt, unhook her bra. He abandons everything on the carpet, kicking off his sweats before he loops his arms around her, scooping her up against his chest and lifting them both up to stand.

Natasha sags heavily against him, letting him take all of her weight, and he does it gladly, taking the few steps to their bedroom, their en suite, stopping only when he can sit inside the bathtub, settling her carefully into his lap. He turns the water on, letting it slowly fill the tub, and holds her close again, cradling her, his left arm still hooked under her knees.

Her head rests on his shoulder now, eyes still closed, but she doesn’t seem quite as sluggish as before, as out of it. Her hand is curled on his chest, and sometimes her knuckles brush minutely over his skin like a caress as the tub fills up, water coming up to partly submerge them.

“Thank you,” she whispers eventually, the words still slow and heavy, but they’re there again.

"You're welcome," he replies, lips pressed to her forehead. And he means it.

Even if it isn't perfect, if all of this just breaks both of their hearts, he knows that she needed it. And he would do anything to give her what she needed.

He shifts carefully to turn off the water, his left hand coming to stroke gently through her hair, sweaty and tangled around his fingers.

"How do you feel?"

It's a heavy question, with several answers, but the way he phrases it gives her the choice to give him any one of them. Whatever she's comfortable with.

He knows she struggles with which one to give when she doesn’t say anything for a few long moments.

“Tired,” she says eventually, turning her face against his shoulder. “Can you?”

He gets like this, too, especially at first, when he'd just begun going out into the field on his own, and he knows what she means, what she can't say.

Sometimes it's just too hard.

So he rearranges her in his lap, shifting her to sit on his thighs, facing him, giving him enough room to wash her carefully. He glides the soap over her skin, lets her be pliant and quiet in his arms, his fingers tracing over her ribs, her arms, silently looking for injuries, for marks that he didn't leave, reassuring himself as much as her.

She sighs in quiet contentment when he moves on to wash her hair, eyes closed and head tipped back, water darkening it, fingers massaging the shampoo over the strands, carefully onto her scalp. At one point she even sways a little, maybe actually close to nodding off, but it’s only testament to how well he did his job.

If she can sleep tonight, there’s a hell of a lot he did right.

It’s not until he's dried them off and wrapped her up in one of his worn-in sweatshirts that they finally share a kiss. She looks at him from where he's set her atop the bathroom counter, keeping her close so he could brush out her hair, and she -

It isn't a smile, as much as the absence of a frown, the lack of the tense line that's been etched between her brows since she walked in, but he's so relieved to see it, almost surprised when she leans into him as he's changing the tape on the cut in her forehead, brushing her lips softly against the corner of his mouth.

He offers her a smile, a real one, small and quiet, and then kisses her softly, chaste and close-mouthed and gentle.

She gets to bed on her own two feet, slow and steady, but doesn’t let him out of her sight. Liho is sleeping on her pillow as he’s done every night since she left, and that brings an almost tender expression to her face.

So she slips in on his side of the bed without taking his sweater off and follows him with her eyes.

He joins her immediately, curling close around her back and pulling the blankets around them, tucking her in securely against him. As he watches, her hand reaches out, fingertips stroking over the cat's fur, and Bucky can't help but smile again when the small thing toddles across the sheets to curl up closer to Natasha, tucking itself tightly under her chin and burrowing inside the open neck of her sweater.

They sleep like that, all three of them curled closely together, Natasha blessedly unmoving in her own rest, and Bucky finally lets sleep take him to the soft sound of her unlabored breaths, his arms wrapped around her.


	2. Chapter 2

_August 2016_

 

It’s a long, really long day.

After the disaster that’s universally been dubbed ‘Civil War’, after things have finally calmed down again, it was clear that the Avengers couldn’t be what they were. After everything that had happened, they needed to connect with the people again, to regain their support, their trust.

And even though most of them didn’t really like the idea, it was true that part of what they needed for that to happen, was to not remove themselves from the public as they’d done before. They had to seem approachable, tangible, like real, normal people.

Simply put, they needed some damn good PR.

And so the interviews were born, the press releases, press conferences, the photo shoots and ops. They are all still determined to keep their privacy, and that they need their space for the work they’re still trying to do, but in the end they all agreed that this is going to help them.

By the time Civil War rolled around, Natasha had already let go of the hope that she was ever going to stay anonymous enough again to do her spy work in peace. She still has a small handful of new covers, but they needed much more work than those in the past and will be much more difficult to keep inconspicuous should she need to use them. But she knows as an Avenger she’s much too visible for the public now to ever truly work under the radar again, and maybe that’s even alright.

This is a different life than the one she led for SHIELD, and she’s always adapted to things like a fish to water.

It’s not so easy for everyone, especially in light of how the war ended. And that’s why she has arranged for her interviews on this day they collectively devote to the press to be over early, so that she can be present for the new Captain America’s.

She stands in the back of the small interview room, shoulder-to-shoulder with one of the members of the New Avengers’ PR team, the small, slender woman who’s been tasked with handling them as they navigate this admittedly fraught day of press. So far, everyone’s handled it well, and the journalists and interviewers who’ve been invited have been on their best behavior, staying far away from the list of prohibited topics Natasha and Sam had worked on providing, for everyone’s comfort.

Although, Natasha would be lying if she said a good portion of that list wasn’t specifically for James’ benefit. She watches him shift in his seat inside the room, the stretch of his shoulders beneath his jacket seemingly innocuous, but obvious to her that he’s becoming fatigued with this entire thing, more than ready to have it be over.

Not that anyone could tell that from how pleasantly he’s speaking, his hands gesturing along as he answers the last journalist’s questions politely, charming as ever.

This last reporter was a wild card, someone they hadn’t had a chance to vet as thoroughly as the others, from a publication that veered more toward gossip than facts. But James had insisted he was alright, that he could handle them, and their PR team had jumped at the chance to seem more ‘open’, as if a few inches of space in a weekly almost-tabloid magazine that only circulates in New York City was a huge blessing.

Rubbish.

Natasha watches silently, entirely proud of him, even as he shifts in his seat again. No one notices the fidgeting, or the tension slowly drawing his shoulders up.

No one but her.

That is, after all, a job she’s become quite accustomed to having, and she already knows what she’s going to do with him - for him - when they’re out of here.

Just a couple more questions.

Maybe she should have known that this wasn’t going to go smoothly all the way to the end.

“So, how does it feel for you,” the interviewer asks, “with this kind of legacy behind you, to carry this title?”

Natasha tenses. No matter how long the list they prepared was, in the end the items were all on there to make sure they wouldn’t bring up two things: James’ past (of which the public and press only know half the story), and Steve. She watches James closely.

His shoulders tense again, the back of his neck flushing subtly.

Damn it.

“I -”

He stumbles, the first time he's done so all day, but recovers quickly, clearing his throat.

"Honored. And humbled."

Short, and to the point.

James shifts quietly in his seat again.

“If she goes down that road, I’m going to pull him out,” Natasha says very quietly, from the corner of her mouth, to the woman beside her, figuring she might just as well give her a fair warning.

The interviewer, sadly, doesn’t disappoint her expectation.

“What a lot of people have been asking themselves is when, how, and by whom exactly you have been offered - or asked? - to carry the shield. What can you tell us about that?”

“You know, ma'am -”

Natasha spares a small smile for how polite he is, even though she can tell his heart must be nearly beating out of his chest. He'd fought her and Sam both, about the list, insisting he could handle it, whatever they threw at him, and she's certain he _could_.

He just shouldn't have to. Not when it's all still so fresh.

"I'm happy to do it, as long as I'm able. And do the best job I can."

He's getting good with the non-answers. Which is so dissonant, knowing how honest he usually is.

James’ hands tighten in the arms of his chair, but the interviewer doesn’t notice. Of course not.

“But how personal is this really, for you, considering -”

Natasha doesn’t wait for the rest of the question. She simply raises her hand, knowing James is going to catch it, and gives him one subtle gesture with her fingers, letting him know he can - should - abort.

There’s anger sitting deep in the pit of her stomach, and she’s not going to stand by and watch him have to confront this any longer.

"I'm afraid our time is up," James says immediately, his tone full of feigned disappointment. The interviewer looks startled for a moment, looking over her shoulder, and Natasha has to give herself credit for not letting any of the anger she's feeling show on her face.

Not worth it.

James is out of his chair and out of the room fast, ignoring the interviewer's offered hand, and Natasha barely catches him in the hallway that leads toward the building's lobby.

He's already tugged his tie loose, his jaw working tensely.

"I'm fine." It's preemptive. "Really."

Natasha only hums in reply, because that’s not worth getting into a discussion over either. Not when they both know what’s really going on.

“I’m meeting you in the car,” she simply says, indulging him, but her tone not really allowing room for argument either. “Five minutes.”

Like this he gets a moment to breathe, and she has time to inform the others that they’re not going to join them for dinner after.

By the time she makes it to the black sedan waiting outside, James has made himself comfortable in the back seat. He's shucked off his suit jacket and his tie, and despite the cool day he's got the window rolled down on his side, both sure signs that he's feeling trapped.

She slips in beside him, and as the car pulls away, she's not all that surprised that he curls close to her immediately, shifting to lay his head heavily in her lap.

It’s a tender protectiveness that takes the upper hand over her anger at the interviewer. Natasha breathes out quietly and touches him immediately, one hand coming to rest on his side, the other starting to trail slowly, gently, through his hair.

It was a long day for the both of them, but she knows that despite the ease he exudes, the old charm and control, these things take their toll on him. And to be confronted like that with the loss of Steve, that wound still so big, so fresh and raw, has done the rest.

He stays silent, and she expected him to, but he also responds to her touches immediately, his eyes falling closed, a bit of the tension draining from his body. But there's still so much tightly-held control in him, she can feel it, and she knows he'll need help letting go of it, need help letting himself.

That’s just fine. It’s not the first time, and Natasha knows what to do. They have a long evening ahead of them, they have time, and she knows she’s going to get him there.

What she starts with, soft and private, only for his ears, is to start humming ‘Somewhere over the rainbow’ while her fingers card lovingly through his hair, her gaze never leaving his face.

He shifts carefully, gathering her hand from his side to tangle their fingers together, holding their twined hands to his chest. A soft sigh leaves him, and she can feel him relaxing minutely again.

James' eyes stay closed, however, for the remainder of their ride, his hand clinging tightly to hers, betraying his calm exterior.

_Slowly. Softly._

“Come on. We’re home,” Natasha tells him with quiet words as the car rolls to a halt in front of their apartment building. While he sits up, reluctantly releasing her hand, she leans forward and thanks their driver so that he doesn’t have to talk. The moment she has rounded the car, her hand reaches for his again, and she leads him inside, into the elevator.

He follows her quietly, his jacket and tie folded over his arm, but still insists on holding the door open for her, pressing the button on the elevator. It's only once the doors have slid closed that his shoulders sag, finally, and he steps into her personal space, rests his forehead on her shoulder.

"I'm really tired."

"I know."

She says it immediately, wraps her arms around him and presses a kiss to his hair. It's what he always says when this happens, when he needs more to unwind than just a quiet day in.

"It's alright. I'm going to take care of you."

"Thank you," he mumbles against her throat, tucking his face into the crook of her neck. He stays like that, silent once more, until they reach their floor, and then lets her lead him down the hall and into their apartment.

Liho comes to greet them and Natasha smiles, bending down to caress the little one’s head while she can hear James slowly pushing off his shoes behind her. She turns and lets her gaze rest on him for a moment before speaking again.

“We’re going to take a shower. Just a quick one.”

His only reply is a nod, a tired one, and then he follows her down the hall and into their bedroom. James hangs his jacket carefully, folding his slacks smartly to keep them creased and then hanging them as well, undressing in the orderly fashion she’s come to associate with his military training. Everything replaced and folded attentively, his shirt placed with the dry cleaning, his undershirt joining the small pile of things to be laundered in the hamper at the foot of their bed. He tends to revert to this orderly style of conducting himself when he’s at his most distracted, and she thinks the familiarity of it helps him keep things compartmentalized, helps him maintain a semblance of control when he feels like he’s being deprived of it.

Natasha doesn’t interrupt him, allowing him the quiet of it, and offers him her dress when he approaches her with the hanger, smoothing it carefully before placing it in the closet next to his suit. Eventually, he’s standing before her in just his underwear, his eyes glassy, expectant.

He shifts uncomfortably, his hands clasped behind his back.

Waiting.

She knows it’s not really all that different on an emotional level, but to be confronted with such obvious signs of how he places everything he does, everything he is, into the palm of her hand, is still startling sometimes.

“Take these off,” Natasha says quietly, with a brief nod towards the fabric still covering him, “and get into the shower.”

He complies immediately, like she expected him to, pushing off his underwear and dropping them in the hamper before crossing into the bathroom and turning on the water in the shower. She watches carefully as he retrieves towels for the both of them, resting them carefully on the counter, and notices that he avoids his own reflection in the mirror, choosing instead to focus on hers.

Without waiting for another word, he steps into the shower, positioning himself underneath the spray and letting out a soft sound of relief, tipping his head back and closing his eyes.

Natasha keeps her eyes on him as she strips off her underwear and pins her hair up before joining him. The water is hot as always, and she gives herself a moment to get used to it. She angles herself in a way to the stream that allows her to keep her head out of the water’s line and steps close to his back, arms coming around his waist.

She brushes a gentle, lingering kiss onto his right shoulder.

_Softly._

His head drops forward after a few moments, his hands covering hers, and he sighs deeply.  

“I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Natasha says immediately, and though she keeps her hold on him gentle, she adds, “I don’t want to hear it again tonight.”

He pulls in a breath, even and deep.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Natasha waits for a moment, then reaches to turn off the water and steps around him. One hand comes up to cup his face, to direct his gaze to her so that she can look him in the eyes.

“I’m going to show you how well you did today. How proud I am of you. Are you with me?”

He leans into her hand, his head heavy, but a small smile curls at one corner of his mouth, and he nods.

“Good.”

She smiles back and can’t resist leaning forward to press a small kiss right to that corner of his mouth.

Sometimes it becomes very real to her again, how lucky she is that everything worked out for them the way it did. How lucky she was back then to have him, and how lucky she is to have him now. He’s the most amazing man she knows, and there’s _so much_ he deserves.

This is what she strives for, always, to give that to him, and to reach the standards she sets for herself in this.

Yes, they’re complicated, both of them, and they need a lot of work, sometimes things most people wouldn’t understand. But she’s so very happy to do it all.

“Here,” Natasha says and reaches for her shower gel, passing it to him, still with that smile on her lips. “You can wash me.”

He takes it, his smile broadening just a bit, but still shadowed by exhaustion, all the things he’s holding onto, the tight, tight grip he has on himself. But he complies immediately, pouring some into his hand and replacing the bottle, lathering her skin gently.

James slides his hands over her body reverently, gliding the soap over her arms, fingers trailing over her collarbones, her ribs, soaping her stomach and hips before he drops to one knee before her, palms moving slowly over her thighs.

She never takes her eyes off him. It’s not quite sexual, but this is still part of it, what they’re doing here, what she’s doing for him, but Natasha simply enjoys the way he touches her too, immeasurably. So of course her body responds to him, a soft, content thrum under her skin. But she hasn’t told him to do anything but this, so she knows he’s not going to. And for now she has no plans to rectify that. There’s still so much time.

 _Slowly_.

His fingers move down her legs, massaging the soap into her calves, and then he finally looks up at her, his head cocked, nudging at her hip wordlessly until she obliges him and turns around. He glides the soap up her legs again, over the curves of her hips, and shifts up to stand again, finishing by smoothing the last bit of lather over her shoulders, carefully avoiding her hair.

“Can I - ?”

Natasha turns her head to acknowledge him over her shoulder.

“Can you what?”

James clears his throat, letting his hands settle by his sides again. Usually, when he’s like this, Natasha needs to remind him once or twice that he should focus on expressing himself, using words to explain how he feels rather than simply retreating inside himself. But she waits, curious if he’ll do it of his own volition.

“Can I help you rise off?”

His voice is small, but it doesn’t waver, and he presses closer to her, slow and steady.

“Please?”

“Yes, you may,” Natasha replies with a soft smile, letting him know that she’s pleased both with his question and the intent.

He shields her hair with his left hand, turning the water on again and gently guiding her to stand beneath it, slowing letting the soap rinse away and run off her body. His right hand strokes over her skin, capturing palmfuls of water and pouring them over her body to help wash away the last bits of soap. It’s careful, quiet, and he stays pressed against her back once he’s finished, dipping his head to drop a few soft kisses against her shoulder.

Natasha turns her head to nuzzle against his hair. “Thank you,” she says quietly, giving them both that moment of closeness, of intimacy, “that felt very nice.”

Eventually she turns around and puts both hands on his hips, looking at him.

“My turn. What I want you to do is lean back, close your eyes, and concentrate on my hands. Nothing else. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes,” he replies immediately, pressing his hips into her hands subtly, and she nods in satisfaction.

Natasha gently directs him back against the wall, shoulders touching the tiles, but she stops him from leaning his hips back as well, giving her room to operate. She grabs his shower gel and starts by his feet, making him raise them one by one to massage the foam into his skin, thumbs digging gently but determinedly into his soles. She keeps it up along his calves, along the hollows of his knees, up his thighs. It’s a massage more than a washing, belying her own words that it’s only supposed to be a quick shower, but right now she doesn’t care.

James’ head tips back against the wall, a soft noise of pleasure leaving him as her hands travel slowly over his body. He presses into her touches, but keeps his shoulders against the tiles, his arms hanging loosely at his sides.

Good.

She continues wordlessly, washing his privates, the creases of his hips, his stomach and chest, fingers brushing with gentle pressure over his muscles. Her hands continue around his sides and start working their way up the muscles to the right and left of his spine, their lower bodies touching now that she’s standing close enough to reach back there.

His hands come up to rest lightly on her waist, and he eases his eyes open to look at her. They’re glassy, still, a little unfocused, but bright, and he holds her gaze for a few long moments before finally lifting his shoulders from the tiles, instead leaning forward and letting his head rest on her shoulder, giving her access to his own.

Natasha can’t help smiling a little that he chose to do this instead of turning around. She rewards him with a little kiss to his neck and her fingers digging into his shoulders, massaging the muscles that are stubborn about unlocking, pressing him against her with the movements.

It takes time, but they’re getting there.

“That’s it, _zvezda moya_ ,” she murmurs gently into the space between them. “You’re doing really well.”

His shoulders unknot slowly, the right first, the left taking a few more long moments before the hard, tense muscles begin to give way beneath her fingers. James sighs again, quietly, a warm huff of breath over her neck.

“Thank you,” he offers, the gentle curve of a smile against her neck, his voice low. “That feels nice.”

“I should do this more often with you,” Natasha muses, reaching for the shower head and starting to let water flow over his back. “Just make you lie down, knead all your muscles from head to toe. Would you like that?”

He hums, pressing closer to her, letting his arms loop loosely around her waist.

“You’ve got better things to do.”

“The decision about which of the things I do are important is mine,” she reminds him gently but pointedly. “And I asked if you’d like it.”

“Yes,” he replies, immediately, his forehead finding the crook of her neck, his back arching under the water. “Very much.”

“That’s better,” she smiles and finishes, putting the showerhead back and reaching for his chin to tip his head up for a brief kiss. “Now out with you. Dry off, be thorough, don’t put any clothes on.”

She watches as he complies quickly, slipping out of the shower and drying himself off carefully, toweling his hair and rubbing at his skin while she turns the water cold just as she likes it at the very end of her showers. Natasha never does this while he’s in with her, always waits until she’s on her own because while she understands completely why this isn’t for him, she likes the feeling of vitalization and refreshment it brings.

He offers her the other towel when she finishes, folding his own over the drying rack carefully and stepping out into their bedroom.

Natasha is quick about drying off and puts on her bathrobe, taking five more minutes to clear her face of the day’s makeup and brushing out her hair. She’s curious where and how he’s going to wait for her, and it will tell her a lot about how he’s feeling, where he is inside his head.

By the time she’s finished and joins him in their bedroom, she finds him kneeling by her side of the bed, resting comfortably on his heels, his eyes following her immediately from where they’d been pinned to the bathroom’s doorway. He still seems very relaxed, no tension in the lines of his body, his hands sitting loosely on his knees.

Natasha isn’t surprised to see he’s already aroused. He usually is when they do this, his cock half-hard and resting heavily against his thigh. The sight alone sends a small pull through her lower half, and she stops for a moment to do nothing but watch, let her gaze trail over every line of his body.

“I don’t think I tell you often enough how beautiful you are,” is the only thing she can say eventually, the only way to conclude her self-indulgent inspection.

That makes him smile at her, the first true, bright one since they left this morning for the day of interviews. It’s a little crooked, but beaming, and when she finally brings her eyes up to his face again, he’s looking at her adoringly, even if the warmth hasn’t quite reached his eyes yet.

Natasha crosses the distance between them and reaches down to caress the side of his face, his neck, nape and throat.

“Here’s what will happen next, my love. I’m going to go take care of a few things, and you’re going to wait here. Don’t touch yourself. When I come back, I want you hard. Alright?”

He follows her touches enthusiastically, his whole body moving to press his cheek closer into her hand, a pleased noise leaving him.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replies hoarsely, eyes seeking out hers.

Instead of a reply she just holds his gaze, letting herself get lost for a long moment in his eyes, her chest feeling wide with the abundance of affection she holds for him. Eventually Natasha leans down further and closes the distance between them for a kiss, this time long and slow and promising.

James hums into it, seeking out another kiss before she finally pulls away again, stroking his cheek gently before she steps out of the room, stopping only once at the doorway to smile back at him.

Natasha takes care of Liho first. The little one is so quiet that he doesn’t come complaining - at least not yet - even when he’s hungry, but he’s sitting by his bowls of food and water, and when she approaches, he perks up and his tail starts squirming gratefully.

“I’m sorry about that,” she tells him quietly while she makes sure he has everything he needs and gives him a round of much needed petting even while he starts eating. “I promise neither of us will ever forget you, okay?”

Afterwards she goes to wash her hands in the kitchen, and prepares a few sandwiches for later, knowing they’ll both be grateful about it when they’re done.

It takes her nineteen minutes to get back into their bedroom.

Not that she’s counting.

When she stops in the doorway to their bedroom, what she sees sends another wisp of warmth stirring in her gut, drawing a smile over her face.

James is still kneeling by her side of the bed, and his eyes have fallen closed again. His teeth glint white and even where they’re set in his lip, his face and neck heated, and he’s fully hard now, cock flushed and curving against his belly.

As she steps closer on quiet feet, she can hear his breathing, harsh and quick in the silence of their room.

Natasha crosses the rest of the distance between them silently and reaches for him, hand on his cheek again, a fervent caress. She rounds him, dragging her fingers into his hair in pure delight and stopping behind him, leaning down to draw one arm around his neck and press her lips to his temple.

“Oh, look at you,” she hums happily, appreciatively. “So good, you’re being so good. How long did it take, hm?”

He shivers, instantly leaning back against her, his lips red and bitten when they seek out her jaw, his neck craning up to press closer to her.

“Not long,” he breathes, his hands flexing at his sides. “Seven minutes.”

 _He_ has been counting.

Oh, there are so many things she wants to do to this man, with him, _for_ him.

“You’re a marvel.”

Natasha presses more kisses onto his skin, his cheek, his jaw, his neck.

“I’m going to be so good to you…”

A whine slips from him, and he shifts his weight, splaying his knees open further.

“Always are,” he grits out, lip caught between his teeth again and she smiles, because that’s the most important, the ultimate thing for her, to know that he feels like this. That it doesn’t need anything special she does for him to still feel how important he is to her, how indispensable. How much she loves him.

Natasha rounds him again and puts a hand on his chest, exerting gentle pressure.

“Lie down.”

She’s already going to her knees in front of him, the other hand tugging open the belt of her robe.

“Do you even know how much I want you? Not just right now. Always. _Always_.”

He lies back willingly, his body pliant under her hand, and settles himself on his back on the carpet, his eyes dipping to her waist as she shrugs open her robe.

“I do,” he offers quietly, his voice low and hot, and his hands reach for her hesitantly, hovering in the space between them. “I want you, too. All the time.”

Natasha moves closer, into his hands, the robe hanging open between them. But she doesn’t wait, instead leans down and starts kissing every inch of his upper body fervently, her hands moving too, lavishing him with attention.

For the moment there’s nothing else she needs to say, but she lets him _feel_ how much she appreciates his words.

There’s a very fine sheen of sweat on his chest from his concentration earlier, and she sucks and licks it from his skin, reaching up to loosen her hair pin and let it tumble down, strands dragging over him.

The longer she goes on, nipping at his chest, dragging her nails lightly up his sides, the less quiet he becomes until every brush of her lips and touch of her hands draws another sound from him, small whines and bitten-off groans. Eventually, he sucks in a deep breath, his hands digging into the carpet, and asks, “Can I -”

Another whine, coupled with a desperate twitch of his hips.

“Like to - can I touch your hair, while you -”

Natasha considers making him speak in full sentences for a very brief moment, but he’s earned this, and so she presses a ‘yes’ to his hip.

His hands fly up to slide into her hair, fingers carding through it carefully, and she doesn’t need to remind him not to pull, he’s always so careful.

The thought of it, how cautious he is, how he always touches her like she’s something precious, makes her chest feel warm.

Another shiver works its way through him, and his hips rock up again, seeking some kind of relief and meeting only empty air.

And he’s so achingly hard.

Natasha glances down at him and smiles, biting down on the side of his hip.

“This where you want me to kiss you?” she wants to know, quickly swiping a fingertip over the tip of his cock, gathering a drop of precome to lick it off her finger. “Tell me.”

He swears, half in English and half in Russian, and his hips buck up again on a whine, his eyes locked on her face. She can’t help but smirk at him, affectionately, pleased but not surprised by how far gone he already is.

“ _Yes_ \- y-yes, please -”

“Alright.”

Natasha shifts until she’s right over him, fingers curling around the base of his erection.

“Don’t come.”

Another helpless noise, his fingers tightening in her hair for a moment before releasing, stroking through it carefully. He pushes her hair back, away from her face, and shakes his head quickly, color riding high on his cheeks.

It suits him so well.

Satisfied, Natasha lowers her head and wraps her lips around him, attempting to mirror the dedication he’s shown her all evening as she sucks him off. It’s not hard at all, the enthusiasm and hunger for him ever present, the careful hand in her hair cradling her head a lovely thing to feel.

The longer she carries on, hollowing her cheeks, working her tongue against him, the more choked and desperate the sounds he’s making become. Soon, his hips start twitching upward again, his left hand slipping from her hair to fist against the carpet, and when she flicks her eyes up to his face, his head is dropped back, a look of tense concentration coloring his features.

Natasha would love to find out how far she could push him, and though she really doesn’t want to be cruel, for the moment it’s too tempting to continue just a little longer, the sounds he makes too good, the expression on his face too beautiful. She circles her tongue around his head and nudges a hand between his legs, strokes over his balls, and then reaches lower to press two fingertips against his perineum.

He spreads his thighs for her, whining softly, his hips jerking up at the press of her fingers, a broken sound falling from his lips.

It’s when Natasha figures that as long as he even encourages her despite knowing what she said to him, she really doesn’t have to stop either.

So she carries on, fingertips massaging the delicate skin, swallowing him down again, and she’s impressed by just how long he holds on before his moans turn tight, almost pained, and his other hand drops from her hair, both fists flexing against the carpet.

“Talia -”

It’s enough to make her ease up, slowly sucking upwards and then drawing the back of her wrist over her lips, slightly out of breath.

She slides over him, covers his body with her own and bends to press kisses to his red-bitten lips, glowing with pride.

“Need a break?”

He’s trembling against her, subtly, and his kisses are uncoordinated and a little sloppy as he rears up to press closer to her. Hardly breaking their kisses, he nods his head.

“What about you?”

Natasha shushes him quietly, not entirely done yet with what she wants to hear.

“How was that? Are you feeling good?” she asks between kisses, her hand stroking over his hip.

He tips his head back, just enough to smile loosely at her, his eyes unseeing when he finally opens them.

“Yeah,” he sighs out, pressing into her touches. “Yeah, I - m’good -”

Something flutters in her chest when she sees him like this, and she continues caressing him, pressing small kisses to his face.

“That’s good, that’s really nice… Is there anything you want right now, anything specific? Either way is just fine, you’re doing amazing, sweetheart.”

“Anything you want,” is his immediate reply as he arches against her, his hands finally lifting to stroke softly over her hips. “Tell me -”

“No.”

Natasha draws back just enough to be able to look at him, fingers going into his hair to hold him, searching his eyes to see if she find some focus in them.

“I asked _you_ . I want to hear if there’s something _you_ want, right now, do you understand that?”

He nods, his eyes slipping into focus when they find her face.

“I want -”

His tongue darts out to wet his lips, his breathing uneven.

“You to -”

Another pause, a gasp when her fingers tighten gently in his hair, grounding him.

“I want to make you come,” the words rush out, almost like he’s not sure they’ll make it if he doesn’t hurry. “Please.”

Her gaze grows impossibly softer, her heart clenching in her chest in the best possible way.

Natasha tilts her head down to kiss him again, soft and sweet.

“I was going to let you do that later.” Nevertheless she reaches for his hand, shifts a little to make some room between their hips, and guides it between her thighs where she’s already wet for him. “Right now?”

His fingertips stroke at her gently, practiced, and he holds her gaze, his eyes clear once more.

“Did you want something else?”

Natasha sucks in a breath but holds his gaze, thinking she might prefer them unfocused again right now.

“I do have an idea or two.”

“Tell me,” he says again, and it’s a request and a prayer. “Please.”

“I want you to get on the bed,” she answers him, spreading her legs a little and leaning down to mouth along his jaw. “To lie back and grab the headboard. And I want your hands to stay there while I ride you.”

He lets out a breath, long and slow, his cheeks flushing again, and she watches his eyes glass over again.

“Yes - _yes_ -”

" _Good_ ," Natasha breathes out, shuddering silently against his fingers before getting off him, finally shrugging fully out of her robe.

“God -” He stares at her, unabashedly, for a few long moments before he grips the edge of the bed and scrambles up after her, unsteady on his feet. He climbs onto the bed, limbs loose and uncoordinated, and settles on his back again hurriedly, his arms shifting over his head automatically, fingers twining loosely in the ornate design of the headboard.

Natasha smiles in deep satisfaction and joins him on the bed, swinging one leg over him to settle on his lap, bending down to steal a kiss from his lips.

"You're so good at this, you listen so beautifully," she murmurs for him, biting into his lower lip while she drags her hips over him. "Think you can do it again? Wait until I tell you to come? Ah, I'm sure you can, it's what you always do, right? Wait for me?"

He nods his head quickly, his hips canting up against her, and he whines into the kiss, angling them to try and catch the head of his cock against her, desperate for the contact.

“Always.” It’s almost a whimper, lost in another kiss. “Always you first.”

"I know." She kisses him again, one hand reaching down for his cock, steadying him beneath her. "I know, you're always so good to me too. Such a gentleman, such an amazing lover. You are."

She knows she's not even going to need anything else to prepare her, so very ready for him. Her breath catches a little when she works his head inside her.

"We're going to change that a bit for now… You're going to come exactly when I tell you to. Yes?"

He nods again, teeth set in his lip, and she watches his hands flex above his head, admires the strength wound inside them. And the understanding that he’ll leave them there, unmoving, just on her word is enough to spur her onward, hips sinking down slowly, engulfing him with small, torturous rolls of her hips.

“Please,” he gasps out, hips stirring. “Whenever you -”

"Whenever I want you to. Yes."

She's enraptured herself, with him, can't take her eyes off him. And he feels so good, so amazing inside her that Natasha bites down on her lip but then thinks better of it and lets out a shameless moan, starting to move over him.

The effect is immediate; a soft cry falls from his lips, his hips bucking up against her, his chest flushing almost to his hips. He is the perfect picture of desperation, this head tucking against his left arm, forehead pressed against the cool metal, his face screwed up in obvious concentration.

She's only just started though, and she wants more. Natasha knows he can hold out for quite a while, he proved it earlier, but she doesn't want to make it too hard on him either.

So she moves on him the way she really wants right now, hard and fast, but keeps an eye on him.

She promised she'd take care of him, and she will.

He holds on admirably, unable to bite back his sounds of pleasure, his hips finally pressing back against the bed when she begins riding him in earnest, no longer interfering or trying to seek his own rhythm. Eventually, he falls almost pliant below her, melting into the bed, his breathing fast but evening out, and she knows that he must be finally, finally there.

The quiet place she knows he’s always searching for, when they’re together like this.

Natasha doesn't dare slow down, but her eyes are fixed on him almost reverently. It's maybe the most amazing thing she'll ever see, to get him there, to _truly_ make him forget everything else. She reaches out and caresses him aimlessly, the tension in own body mounting, but it feels secondary now.

As long as he gets to have this.

She does everything she can think to prolong it, to avoid breaking the spell, slowly trailing her fingertips over his chest, clenching her muscles around him, anything to keep him here, right here, inside the silent, perfect moment they’ve created.

But she knows she has to end it, bring it to a close, and he _deserves_ it, so much. So she brushes her thumb over his cheek eventually and says quietly, "You're there, my love, my beautiful boy. Come for me."

He falls silent, then, none of the small sounds that have been falling from his lips before escaping as his back arches for a long moment, and then he’s shaking, coming apart beneath her, his lips parted on a noiseless cry.

So beautiful.

Natasha continues riding him for as long as she can, slowing down a little, her own hand between her thighs to stroke herself almost absently.

His head lolls back, exposing the long line of his throat, and he’s smiling, bright and loose, his eyes still closed tightly.

She stills and leans forward, scatters kisses on his face, his cheeks and lips and lashes, and murmurs praise against his skin.

How can she not?

“What about you,” is the first thing he says, his voice hoarse, his eyes finally falling open to look at her, unfocused still but shining, sliding over her face. “Tasha -”

"In a moment," she replies and lets him slip out of her, but stays close, still pressing kisses to his lips. "I love you, I love you so much, that was incredible…"

He moves lazily against her, slowly, slowly, slowly, returning her kisses with a sated lack of urgency, grinning openly between them.

“I love you.” It’s almost a laugh, she can hear the smile in it. “More than anything.”

Natasha can't help joining in. She buries her face against his neck and laughs against his skin, soft and elated, curling around him happily.

His arms come to encircle her, his right hand flexing and opening a few times before it finds her hair, holding her closer to him tightly.

“Thank you,” he whispers, lips pressed to her temple, and she makes a soft, elated sound against his skin.

“That was alright? What you needed?” she wants to know despite how happy he looks, needs to hear it, because this is important, it’s fragile and sacred, and she wants to do right by him as he always does by her.

"Exactly what I needed," comes his reply, breathed gently again her hair. His right hand strokes through her hair, slowly, and she can feel how loose-limbed he is, how relaxed, how soft.

<"Thank you.">

<“Nothing you need to thank me for,”> Natasha smiles against his skin, eyes drifting shut as she enjoys his touch, the warmth of his naked skin, their closeness. <”I’m glad you feel good.”>

<"I still want -">

There's no tightness in his voice, just a boundless, sweet affection, and his fingers slip from her hair to trail down her spine.

<"I'd still like to take care of you.">

She laughs quietly and wraps an arm around his waist just to be able to squeeze him affectionately. She knew he would.

<“Any way you want.”>

He moves slowly, shifting them, encouraging her to lie on her back beside him so he can move over her, dropping soft kisses over her chest, left hand gently palming one of her breasts. And she can't take her eyes from his, finally focused again and clear, pinned to hers as he makes his way down her body, mapping her curves with his tongue.

By the time he's made it to her center, soft, lazy strokes of his tongue over her folds, the heat she'd been lost to earlier is back, coiling low in her gut.

Natasha gives him a soft, breathy moan, lets her legs fall open wider and her eyes shut. It’s so nice to just lie back now that they’re both so relaxed, and she knows this won’t take long. Just having watched him, touched him had her on a constant low level of arousal even before she’d taken him inside, and the long, slow accumulation is paying off now.

She can feel it coming from a mile off, her hips constantly encouraging him by small nudges up against him, has a long, long time to enjoy it.

“Fingers… your fingers,” she gasps quietly, not quite with that firm tone from before, but he complies immediately anyway, slipping two fingers inside her. He crooks them, his brilliant tongue flicking over her clit, and she can feel his eyes on her face even as hers fall closed, her head tipping back, quiet sounds of pleasure escaping her.

After that it’s over very quickly. It mounts and mounts undeniably, makes her gasp and shudder, and then she’s locked in her orgasm, blacked out to everything else around her. Natasha presses back instinctively against him, frozen for a long moment, and then rides through it with a long, loud moan, riding herself on his fingers until it finally lets up.

And he doesn't move, doesn't waver in his attentions until she's stopped twitching, finally letting his fingers slip free from her body and holding her eyes as he sucks them clean.

Natasha's hand finds his hair again when he leans in once more, burying his tongue inside her, licking the evidence of their joining from her, groaning when he tastes himself on her. He moves slowly, more gentle, teasing strokes of his tongue, lavishing her in the sensations.

She whimpers softly at the continuing stimulation but doesn’t stop him, mouth simply dropping open to take in deep, quiet breaths. Natasha loves when he does this and she wouldn’t dream of pushing him off, simply strokes his hair gratefully while her heartbeat slowly quiets down.

Eventually he slows, long, lazy swipes of his tongue over her folds and soft, open-mouthed kisses to her thighs. It's become less about the sensation and more the closeness, which she knows he enjoys just as much as she does. Natasha simply watches him now with a bright smile on her face, keeps stroking his hair, her other arm angled under her head to prop it up a little.

She doesn’t feel the need to say anything either, too comfortable now in their shared intimacy, in the warmth being passed back and forth between them.

He nuzzles her thigh affectionately, grinning cheekily at her when he rubs the point of his chin over the delicate skin, teasing her with the scrape of the shadow of a stubble already dusting his jaw.

"I love you," he offers simply, pressing a soft kiss against her hip, another just below her navel, working his way up her body the way he came, resting finally to pillow his head on her breasts, smiling gently.

Natasha folds her arms around him and presses a kiss to the top of his head, for a few quiet, intense moments simply feeling incredibly relieved. That he can smile like this after everything he went through - again - just a couple of weeks ago, a loss Natasha knows will at some point catch up on him again, will always weigh on him one way or the other.

But for now they’re here, and he’s smiling with his heart and soul.

That’s all Natasha can ask for.


End file.
